Work Text:
Bright, artificial light from the enchanted windows of the auror floor bullpen cast a sterile glow over her desk in the middle of the room. Her hands trembled as she looked down at the parchment her owl Thorne had just delivered from Australia and in that moment she was glad the height of her cubicle walls were hiding her from prying eyes.
Hermione,
Your father and I hope you are well this Holiday season. We are writing to inform you that we have decided to stay in Australia for the Holidays, but thank you for your invitation. We’re sure you understand—-we just can’t abide the wet and cold of an English winter any longer. Enclosed is our gift.
Helen and Richard
On the desk was a small wrapped gift, the paper crisp and pristine, its bow unnervingly perfect—obviously done at a department store. Neither Helen nor Richard had ever been adept at wrapping presents. As a child, her gifts had been chaotic affairs of rumpled paper, excessive tape, and ribbons tied so haphazardly they could have been mistaken for knotted string. The memory welled up unbidden, pricking her eyes with tears she refused to shed. She crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the enchanted rubbish bin. It vanished with a quiet pop.
They hadn’t even asked her to visit, a small voice whispered. Not even an offer to see their daughter for Christmas. The voice clawed past the Occlusion she stubbornly tried and failed to keep in place. That was just fine, she told herself. She didn’t need to see them, it had only been two years since they had last been in the same place, since the end of the war, since she had returned their memories. In the scheme of things that was hardly any time at all.
Her eyes darted unbidden to the dark green envelope sitting in the letter tray on the corner of her desk. The thick parchment oozing elegance and expense, its silver cursive writing shining in the light like glittering sickles.
The Malfoy Christmas Eve Ball.
The invitation to the inaugural event had been sitting in her tray for days, taunting her. When it first arrived, she’d scoffed. A Malfoy Ball, of all things. It seemed Lucius, with Narcissa gone, was determined to replace her famous New Year’s Eve soirées with something equally ostentatious. No doubt he hoped to scrub the Malfoy name clean with champagne and caviar. And society, ever fickle, would come flocking back, eager to forget.
Draco, at least, was earning back some respect the hard way. His work with the Aurors to track down the last of the escaped Death Eaters had been impressive, if calculated. Typical Slytherin pragmatism.
But her other options for Christmas Eve were even less appealing. The Burrow was out of the question. Ron would be there, and things with them had grown too strained after the failure of their relationship. Harry would fuss, trying to play mediator and she didn’t want to ruin his time with Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. He was so happy to have the family and the peace he’d always dreamed of. The other option, sitting alone in her flat… well that was just too depressing.
She picked up the envelope, running her fingers over the embossed crest. She hadn’t stepped foot in Malfoy Manor since the war. Could she do it? Could she walk through the drawing room where she’d once been tortured? Her arm tingled, the scar on her arm burning with phantom pain.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled the RSVP card from the envelope. With the scratch of her quill, she hurriedly added her name, the space for a plus one left blank. Thorne, still perched on her desk awaiting his customary treat tilted his head at her as she folded the card.
“To Malfoy Manor, sweet,” she whispered, holding out a treat for him before affixing it to his leg. With a soft hoot he swallowed the treat and flew off.
Task completed, she exhaled, a strange mix of dread and resolve settling in her chest. Now she just needed to figure out what to wear.
❆
“I can’t believe you’re actually going through with this,” she said, folding her arms. “A Malfoy Christmas Eve Ball. I thought you had more sense.”
Hermione sighed, plucking at the fabric to check the stitching. “It’s just a party, Ginny.”
“A party hosted by Lucius Malfoy. At Malfoy Manor.” Ginny’s voice rose, drawing the attention of a hovering assistant. She flashed the witch an apologetic smile before lowering her voice to a hiss. “Have you forgotten what happened to you in that house?”
“No,” Hermione said quietly, a faint tremor in her voice. “I haven’t. I don’t think I ever will. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let it dictate where I can and can’t go.”
Ginny’s frown deepened as she leaned against a rack of shimmering dress robes. “Why not go home? You haven’t seen your parents since the war ended?
Her heart squeezed at her words, the reminder that her parents had no interest in spending the Holidays with her, and her throat closed over her response. Not wanting to burden her friends with the situation.
Ginny, on a roll, continued unaware of her inner turmoil, “And what about Draco? Isn’t it bad enough having him lurking around the Auror Office without you playing nice at some posh party?”
Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Draco’s done nothing but prove himself since the war ended. I’m not about to hold his family’s sins over his head forever.”
Ginny snorted. “I’m not convinced. He’s a Slytherin, Hermione. And you know Lucius isn’t inviting people over for mince pies and carols out of the goodness of his heart. He’s up to something.”
“I’m not naive, Ginny,” Hermione said, pulling a sapphire-blue robe off a rack and holding it up against herself. “I’m perfectly capable of handling Lucius Malfoy if it comes to that. Besides,” she added, her tone more wry, “it’s either this or spending the evening alone in my flat. And I’d rather face the Malfoys than my own thoughts.”
Ginny opened her mouth to argue no doubt about her attending the festivities at the Burrow again, but her lips snapped shut when the witch behind the counter approached them, her robes fluttering elegantly as she moved. She was tall and striking, with dark hair pinned into an intricate updo and an accent as sharp as her tailored dress.
“Excusez-moi,” the witch began, her French accent lilting, “but did I overhear correctly? You are attending the Malfoy Christmas Eve Ball?”
Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Why?”
The witch’s dark eyes glittered with sudden enthusiasm. “Ah! You are Hermione Granger, yes? Céleste Beauvais.” She offered a delicate hand, which Hermione shook uncertainly. “I have heard much about you. And if you are attending that ball, well, you cannot wear just anything. Non, non, it would be a crime.”
Ginny blinked, surprised by her intensity. “It’s just a ball.”
Céleste gave Ginny a look that could have melted steel. “There is no such thing as just a ball, mademoiselle.” She turned her attention back to Hermione, her expression growing thoughtful. “I have something for you. Something perfect. Wait here.”
Before Hermione could protest, Céleste swept away into the back of the shop, her wand flicking behind her as she summoned several fabric samples. Ginny leaned closer to Hermione, whispering, “Where did this one come from? She’s like a hurricane in heels.”
Hermione shrugged. “France presumably, I heard some of the witches in the elevator at the Ministry going on about this new shop with to die for styles.” She brought her hand to her chest in mock emphasis of their words.
Ginny smirked. “Well, she’s intense. I like it.”
Moments later, Céleste reappeared, carrying a gown draped over her arm with the reverence of someone cradling treasure. Even from a distance, the gleam of the fabric was unmistakable. Ginny’s eyebrows shot up, her lips parting in disbelief.
“Oh no,” Hermione said quickly, holding up her hands. “That’s far too—”
“Absolutely not,” Céleste interrupted, spreading the gown out with a flourish. The fabric caught the light, shimmering in a way that suggested it had been enchanted to sparkle subtly with every movement. Hermione could tell it was the kind of dress that belonged in a fairy tale—or to someone far wealthier than she was.
“This dress,” Céleste said, her eyes alight with pride, “is a masterpiece. I designed it when I was still in Paris, stitched by hand, and enchanted by me personally. It’s bold, sophisticated, and entirely unforgettable. Just like you, Miss Granger.”
Ginny let out a low whistle, leaning closer to Hermione and muttering, “You could probably buy a broomstick factory for whatever that costs.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “Céleste, I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t afford—”
“Non, non, non!” Céleste cut her off, looking horrified. “Afford? This dress is not for sale. It is a gift.”
Hermione blinked. “A gift?”
Céleste’s lips curved into a confident smile. “Think of it as a business arrangement. You are a war hero, a celebrated witch. If you are seen wearing my gown at the Malfoy Ball, well, the press will do more for my shop than a thousand Galleons ever could.”
Ginny smirked. “She’s not wrong. You’d basically be her walking advertisement.”
Céleste nodded, utterly unfazed. “Exactly. And in return, you will look magnifique. The belle of the ball.”
Hermione hesitated, her fingers brushing against the fabric. It was softer than anything she’d ever worn, cool and smooth against her skin.
For a fleeting moment, she imagined herself standing in the grand ballroom at Malfoy Manor, every gaze fixed on her. She could almost picture Draco’s icy composure faltering, his grey eyes widening with something unspoken—admiration, perhaps, though he’d never admit it. And then there was Lucius, ever the portrait of pureblooded elegance, his rigid mask of superiority slipping against his will. She could see the faintest flicker of surprise in his gaze before he offered her a glass of champagne, his movements polished and precise, yet his pause—his hesitation—lingering just long enough to feel deliberate.
“I don’t know…” she murmured.
Ginny nudged her, grinning. “Oh, just take the dress, Hermione. Make them all choke on their champagne. You’ll turn every head at that stuffy party, and who knows? Maybe Lucius Malfoy will keel over at the sight of you besting them at their own game.”
Hermione frowned, shooting her a sharp look, but Ginny just shrugged. “What? I’m not wrong.”
Céleste clapped her hands together. “Yes! Come, try it on. You will see—it was made for you.”
With a resigned sigh, Hermione allowed Céleste to lead her to the fitting room. Ginny trailed behind, smirking. “If Draco so much as breathes funny when he sees you in that, I’m hexing him. And Lucius? Well… I’ll hex him twice. And for Merlin’s sake, try not to let their smarmy charm get to you.”
❆
Lucius Malfoy stood near the towering Christmas tree, its enchanted ornaments casting flickers of golden light across the room. He swirled his glass of mulled wine absently, the spiced aroma mingling with the rich scents of pine, cinnamon, and the faintest trace of snow carried in by the charmed breeze swirling above the grand ballroom. Around him, witches and wizards draped in their finest robes flitted between conversation and champagne, their laughter a symphony of refinement that he had orchestrated to perfection.
This was the Malfoy name at its finest—polished, powerful, untouchable.
His gaze flickered toward the grand staircase as another guest arrived, announced by the faint click of heels against polished marble. His chest tightened when he saw her.
Hermione Granger.
He knew she had accepted the invitation—he had seen her RSVP among the many his staff processed—but he hadn’t expected her to command the room as she did now. She descended the staircase slowly, her gown shimmering in the light of the crystal chandeliers. The soft silver-gold fabric clung to her figure, the delicate beading sparkling like freshly fallen frost. The sheer cape flowing from her shoulders was a nod to traditional dress robes seen on many of the other witches in attendance, but the strapless design of the gown defied convention. The way it hugged her frame was undeniably alluring, her small, rounded breasts and narrow waist accentuated by the masterful tailoring.
For a moment, Lucius thought he had imagined the faint magical hum that seemed to emanate from her. But as she reached the bottom of the staircase, the air around her practically thrummed with quiet power. The gown wasn’t just beautiful—it was enchanted, subtle charms woven into the beading to catch the light and ripple with her movements like the glow of a thousand fairy lights on a snowy night.
Lucius’s fingers tightened around his glass. The sight of her should have inspired disdain—a mudblood daring to step into the centre of wizarding high society as though she belonged. But instead, it stoked something far more visceral. A hunger.
He tried to frame it as practical, an acknowledgment of her power. She wasn’t just a witch anymore; she was a symbol. Of strength. Of resilience. Of a war fought and won. The magical hum radiating from her was unmistakable, weaving into the very fabric of the room and demanding to be noticed. There was no denying what she could bring to the Malfoy name—her influence, her reputation, the sheer potency of her presence.
And yet, Lucius couldn’t deny the more immediate pull. She was breathtaking, a vision that both defied and tempted his deeply ingrained beliefs. The years of indoctrination, of pureblood pride and rigid breeding, warred with the unmistakable truth that Hermione Granger—this witch with her glittering gown and defiant gaze—was magnificent.
And he wanted her.
His jaw tightened, the heat of his desire laced with the bitterness of its impossibility. She wasn’t for him. Not truly. Not in the way his instincts suddenly craved.
When she stepped closer, exchanging polite words with guests as she moved through the crowd, Lucius allowed his focus to sharpen. He reached for the faint tendrils of her thoughts, brushing against them with the ease of decades of Legilimency practice. It wasn’t invasive—not yet—but it was enough to feel her emotions: the tension humming under her skin, the discomfort of so many eyes on her, the faint ache of homesickness she couldn’t quite suppress.
So human. So unguarded. So lonely.
He probed a fraction deeper, careful not to linger long enough to draw her attention. Her surface thoughts flickered like candlelight, vivid impressions of warmth and longing. Memories of Christmases past—a simpler time filled with Muggle traditions she’d left behind. The sight of her parents’ living room flashed briefly in his mind’s eye, the twinkle of lights on a tree, the sound of laughter.
He pulled back before she could notice, his lips curving faintly as he took another sip of his wine. She had no idea, barely any defences. It only made her more tempting.
His gaze shifted to Draco, standing near the base of the tree with a glass of champagne in hand. Lucius didn’t miss the way his son’s silver eyes followed her, unguarded and hungry. It was the look of a man who had yearned for something for far too long. And for once, Lucius couldn’t fault him.
He had known of Draco’s fascination with her—had seen the way his son’s eyes lingered on her even in their Hogwarts days. Back then, he had dismissed it as rivalry, petty obsession. But now, as he watched Draco watch her, he saw something deeper. And he understood it, because he felt it, too.
Granger wasn’t just a witch. She was a force. A magical prodigy, powerful enough to match the greatest of their kind, and a survivor who had carved her place into history with an iron will. She could bring strength to the Malfoy name, rebuild their family’s legacy in a way no pureblood bride ever could. And she could be theirs.
The thought sent an unfamiliar thrill through him, and he immediately tempered it, his grip tightening on the stem of his glass.
She had moved into the room now, exchanging polite greetings with a few guests. As she approached him, her golden-brown eyes met his across the ballroom, and Lucius felt a jolt of something dangerous ripple through him. It wasn’t admiration, and it wasn’t just lust—it was want, sharp and insistent, the kind of desire that transcended logic and reason.
When she finally stopped before him, her smile was poised but warm. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said, her voice smooth and steady. “Your home looks stunning tonight. The Yule decorations are particularly lovely.”
Lucius raised a brow, pleased despite himself at her use of the word. Not Christmas, but Yule—a subtle nod to the traditions she had no claim to, and yet clearly understood. “Thank you, Miss Granger,” he replied, his tone as polished as ever. “It is always a pleasure to see wizarding customs appreciated.”
Her lips curved slightly, a flicker of amusement in her gaze. “I’ve always admired how wizards celebrate the season—the reverence for the magic of Yule itself. It’s something the Muggle world never quite managed.”
Lucius inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your understanding is… unexpected. And impressive.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Knowledge has always been my strongest ally, Mr. Malfoy. I try to wield it well.”
Lucius felt the corner of his mouth curve further, despite himself. “And yet, tonight, it seems you wield far more than knowledge.” His eyes flicked briefly to her gown, taking in the shimmer of the beadwork, the way the fabric clung to her body. “Your presence is commanding, Miss Granger. I imagine you’ve turned more heads than our decorations.”
Her smile didn’t falter, though her eyes glinted with something he couldn’t quite place. “That wasn’t my intention,” she said lightly. “But I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Lucius took a sip of his wine, his gaze lingering on her longer than propriety dictated. “It was meant as one.”
Before he could say more, Draco appeared beside her, his hand brushing her elbow in a gesture that felt both possessive and protective. “Granger,” he said, his voice low, his gaze sweeping over her. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Lucius watched as she turned to Draco, her expression softening ever so slightly. He noted the faint blush that touched her cheeks, the way Draco’s fingers lingered against her skin. Something stirred in Lucius again—want, hunger—but this time, it was sharper, more deliberate.
He turned back to his mulled wine, schooling his features into their usual mask of composure. Still, as he watched the two of them out of the corner of his eye, the thought remained.
Hermione Granger could rebuild their name. Their power. She could be the future of the Malfoys, if only she could be persuaded.
And Lucius had never been one to let opportunity slip through his fingers.
“Faerby,” he called softly, and the small house-elf appeared instantly at his side.
“What can Faerby do for Master Lucius?” The elf asked with a bow.
“I believe we have a phial of Velox Vino in the potions room,” Lucius said smoothly. The elf nodded. “Good. Add just enough to Miss Granger’s drink to ensure she is in no condition to leave this evening. Make sure she is directed to the Amaranth Suite in the family wing.”
“In the family wing, Master?” Faerby asked in surprise. “Not the guest wing?”
The guest wing had already been equipped for close friends of the family to stay if need be.
His tone sharpened. “The family wing.”
“Yes sirs, of course, sirs,” Faerby said quickly, bowing low before disappearing with a crack.
Taking another sip of his wine, he let the faintest trace of a smile tug at his lips. No, he would not let opportunity slip through his fingers.
❆
The warmth of the ballroom had begun to seep into her skin, the soft hum of conversation and the glint of fairy-lit decorations blending into a pleasant haze. The enchanted snowflakes twinkling above her head dissolved before reaching the floor, their delicate shimmer catching in the strands of her hair. Her champagne flute was only half-empty, but the bubbles had already gone to her head—maybe it was the atmosphere, or the weight of the night pressing against her in ways she hadn’t expected.
She tried to focus on the music. “The Enchanted Evergreen” transitioned into another Yule carol, the lilting melody played by the string quartet both unfamiliar and haunting. Her steps had been light and sure upon arriving, her confidence bolstered by the way the dress moulded to her body, the way her magic hummed faintly under her skin in rhythm with the beads that caught the light. Yet she was no longer sure she belonged here. The grandeur, the weight of the stares—it was all starting to feel like too much.
One gaze burned hotter than the others.
Draco had been watching her since she entered the room, his grey eyes shadowed and sharp, following her every movement with a hunger that was barely veiled. She had caught him more than once, and though he didn’t speak at first, she felt him, always there, like the faintest brush of static against her skin.
And then there was Lucius—calmer, cooler, but no less present. Where Draco’s attention was direct and visceral, Lucius’s was subtle, a quiet weight at the edges of her awareness. She felt his gaze sweep over her at intervals, lingering just long enough to make her chest tighten.
They weren’t the only ones.
“Granger!” a voice called, and she turned automatically, already regretting it. Cormac McLaggen, flushed and already tipsy, stood a little too close, holding a glass of something amber that sloshed precariously in his hand. “What a surprise seeing you here. Didn’t know you had it in you to clean up so… thoroughly.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin smile. “McLaggen. I didn’t expect to see you here, either.”
“I know,” he said, smirking as he leaned in closer, his eyes dropping—not subtly—to her chest. “Can’t stay away from me, can you?”
Her stomach tightened, and she forced herself to step back despite her lightheadedness, her voice as icy as she could manage. “I’m here for the Yule celebration, not for you.”
But he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he grinned, his hand reaching out to touch her arm. “Come on, Granger. Don’t be so uptight. Dance with me. You know you want to.”
She stiffened, but before she could respond, another hand reached out, intercepting McLaggen’s wrist with an unmistakable force.
“That’s enough, McLaggen.” Draco’s voice cut through the conversation like the snap of a whip, low and dangerous. Hermione’s breath caught as his grey eyes, dark with restrained fury, locked onto Cormac.
He tried to bluster, but Draco’s grip tightened just enough to make him blanch. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, yanking his arm free and retreating with a muttered curse.
Draco turned to Hermione, his eyes still cutting. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly. “Thank you.”
He didn’t let go of her arm immediately, his fingers lingering just above her elbow, his gaze sweeping over her as though he were searching for something. Then, without another word, he held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. Her hand slipped into his, and he led her onto the dance floor, his grip firm but not unkind. The music shifted to a slower melody, the notes heavy with warmth and longing, and Hermione felt the weight of the night settle over her shoulders once more. Draco’s hand rested lightly on her waist, his movements smooth and practised, and for a moment, she allowed herself to relax into the rhythm.
“You’re full of surprises tonight, Granger,” Draco murmured, his voice low and teasing. “I didn’t expect to see you here, let alone…” His gaze dipped briefly to her gown before returning to her face, his expression unreadable. “…dressed like this.”
Hermione snorted softly, the champagne buzzing pleasantly in her veins. “I wasn’t aware my attendance or attire required your approval, Malfoy.”
“Approval?” His lips curved into a faint smirk, his fingers tightening just slightly on her waist. “Far from it. I’m impressed, actually. Though I’ll admit, it’s a little unsettling to see you like this.”
“Like what?” she asked, tilting her head, her voice challenging. The movement sent a few stray curls tumbling against her cheek, and Draco’s eyes flicked to them briefly before meeting hers again.
“Like you belong here,” he said, his tone softening, though the words carried an edge she couldn’t quite place. “Confident. Untouchable.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, though she couldn’t be sure if it was from the drinks or the intensity in his gaze. “I’ve always belonged, Malfoy,” she shot back. “Whether anyone here likes it or not.”
Draco’s smirk widened, though there was something in his expression that felt less mocking, more thoughtful. “I never truly doubted that. But I wonder… do you realise how much everyone else does?”
Her steps faltered slightly, and his hand steadied her, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of her gown. “You’re drunk,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “Not quite the Granger I’m used to.”
“I’m not drunk,” Hermione replied, though the slight slur in her voice betrayed her. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just… tipsy.”
Draco chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a moment, she hated how the sound went right to her lower stomach. “Tipsy Granger is… interesting. Far less combative than usual.”
“I can still fight you if you want,” she quipped, leaning just slightly closer as they turned with the music. “Though I don’t think this crowd would appreciate a duelling demonstration.”
He arched a brow, clearly enjoying her uncharacteristic looseness. “I’d win,” he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth twitched with suppressed laughter as he undoubtedly thought of the Auror sparring session from earlier in the week. “As always.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, though the gesture was softer than she intended. “You’ve beaten me one time. Your ego’s even bigger than I thought.”
“And yet, you keep stepping closer.” His words did nothing to bank the heat that was spreading in her core, his tone shifting into something darker, something that made her breath catch. “Careful, Granger. People are watching.”
“Let them,” she said, surprising even herself with the boldness of her words. The champagne had loosened her tongue, her inhibitions. But as the space between them shrank, she felt the heat in her cheeks intensify, her pulse quickening under his gaze.
Draco’s smirk faded, replaced by something far more serious, his hand shifting slightly on her waist, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her back. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
“And you’re the expert, I suppose?” she shot back, though her voice wavered under the weight of his closeness.
His lips curved again, this time into a softer smile. “One of many things I excel at.”
Before she could respond, the music slowed to its final notes, and Draco’s hand lingered on her waist just a moment longer than was proper. The spell of the dance broke as they stepped apart, the hum of the room returning to her ears in a rush.
“You should sit,” he said, his voice a stern command, his gaze flicking briefly to her glass as though he’d noticed how many she’d had. “Before you do something reckless.”
Hermione raised her chin, her pride bubbling up despite—or maybe because of—the warmth spreading through her chest. “I think I’ve handled myself just fine.”
Draco’s eyes took on that glinting sharpness, like a predator sizing up his prey, though his smirk lingered. “For now.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the middle of the ballroom, her heart racing and her skin still tingling where his hand had rested.
She felt another gaze on her—Lucius, standing near the edge of the floor, his expression unreadable but his attention unwavering. Her cheeks burned, and she couldn’t tell if it was the champagne or the weight of their combined focus that made her feel so unsteady. His gaze ignited sparks where it lingered on her exposed chest.
The warmth of the ballroom and the festive glow of the enchanted chandeliers felt heavier now, pressing on Hermione’s senses in a way that was both pleasant and overwhelming. She reached for another drink. The bubbles danced on her tongue, and with each sip, the room seemed to hum a little softer, the edges of her anxiety blurring into something she couldn’t quite name.
She took a sip, and the golden liquid seemed to settle in her chest, warming her from the inside out. Maybe she’d had too much. Probably. But it was Christmas Eve, and for once, she wasn’t going to let herself dwell on all the ways the night could go wrong.
Instead, she let her gaze drift upward, to the enchanted snowflakes glittering above the ballroom. The music played by the string quartet shifted to something softer, almost mournful, and for a brief moment, the ache of homesickness pressed against her chest.
She missed her parents. She missed the warmth of her childhood Christmases, the sound of carols on the wireless, the smell of her mother’s slightly over baked mince pies. For a moment, she could almost see the twinkling lights on the tree in her parents’ living room, hear their laughter as they exchanged presents.
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” she murmured to herself, the words catching in her throat. “If only in my dreams.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass as the ache deepened. She was here, in this grand and glittering ballroom, surrounded by elegance and magic and power, and yet she had never felt farther from home. The room seemed to grow warmer, heavier, and Hermione tugged at the edge of her cape as she moved to set her empty glass on a passing tray. Her steps faltered slightly, the effects of the champagne buzzing through her veins more than she cared to admit. She needed air. Space. An escape.
Looking left toward the grand doors leading out of the ballroom, their gilded frames just visible through the throng of guests, it felt impossibly far away and the idea of navigating through the crowd made her stomach twist. She turned instead toward one of the quieter side corridors on her side of the ballroom, hoping it might lead her to an alternate exit—or at least a moment’s reprieve from the weight of so many eyes.
The corridor was dimly lit, its polished marble floors echoing faintly beneath her unsteady steps. She wrapped her arms around herself, her cape swishing softly as she moved. The cold draft brushing against her shoulders was a welcome change, soothing the flush in her cheeks from both the champagne and the tension that had simmered all evening.
But as she walked farther, she realised with a growing sense of unease that the hallways seemed endless, twisting and turning in ways that made no sense. The Manor was a labyrinth, its grandeur quickly turning into something oppressive. Every door she passed was closed, their dark wood carved with intricate details that only heightened the feeling of being out of place.
She paused at a junction, turning her head to glance back the way she had come. The faint hum of the ballroom’s music was barely audible now, and for the first time that night, she felt truly, deeply alone.
Letting out a shaky sigh, her hands brushing against the smooth fabric of her dress to help steady herself. Just keep walking, she told herself. You’ll find the exit eventually. But the twisting halls seemed determined to confuse her, and after a few more turns, she stopped, leaning against the wall for balance. Her head spun faintly, the champagne mixing with the disorientation of the labyrinthine passages.
“This place is ridiculous,” she muttered, her frustration bubbling up. “Of course the Malfoys would have a house so grand, no one can find their way out of it.”
“Miss Granger?”
The soft, high-pitched voice startled her, and she turned sharply, her breath catching as she saw a small house-elf standing a few feet away. The elf was dressed in a neatly pressed tunic bearing the Malfoy crest, her large green eyes shining with a mix of nervousness and deference.
“Yes?” Hermione said, her voice still edged with surprise.
“Faerby has been sent to assist Miss Granger,” the elf said, bowing low. “The master instructed Faerby to see that Miss Granger is comfortable.”
Hermione frowned, the words slow to register through the champagne-fueled haze clouding her mind. “Comfortable? I was trying to find the exit.”
Faerby straightened, her expression brightening. “Miss Granger’s rooms have been prepared. Faerby will show you.”
“My rooms?” Hermione blinked, her brow furrowing. She hadn’t planned on staying. She should leave. But the thought of venturing back through the endless halls—or worse, the bustling ballroom—made her stomach churn.
“Yes, miss,” Faerby said with another bow. “Faerby will take you there. Everything has been arranged.”
Hermione hesitated, her lips parting to protest, but the words didn’t come. Exhaustion tugged at her limbs, and the soft warmth of the champagne buzzed in her veins, dulling her resolve. Maybe it was the weariness, or the ache of homesickness still pressing against her ribs, but the idea of retreating to a quiet room, away from the prying eyes and whispers of the ball, was suddenly too tempting to resist.
“All right,” she said finally, her voice soft. “Lead the way.”
Faerby’s ears wiggled slightly in what Hermione could only guess was a gesture of approval, and the elf began to walk, her small feet pattering against the marble floors. Hermione followed, her heels clicking softly in uneven rhythm, the champagne clouding her thoughts and making her steps heavier with each turn.
The corridors grew quieter the further they walked, the faint hum of the ballroom disappearing entirely. When they finally stopped, Faerby pushed open a set of grand double doors, stepping aside to let Hermione enter.
Hermione’s breath caught as she stepped inside.
The suite was exquisite, warm and welcoming in a way she hadn’t expected. A roaring fire crackled in the marble hearth, its glow casting flickering golden light across the room. The furniture was upholstered in light blue and silver, the intricate embroidery on the cushions gleaming faintly in the firelight. A grand four-poster bed, draped in fine silks, stood against one wall, and an ornate vanity with a gilded mirror sat near the entrance to what looked like a colossal ensuite.
Her eyes drifted to the two smaller doors on opposite walls of the suite, their presence immediately catching her attention. She frowned slightly, her gaze lingering on them as a faint curiosity stirred in the back of her mind.
“Miss Granger will find everything she needs here,” Faerby said, her voice soft but certain. “If there is anything else, Faerby will bring it.”
Hermione nodded absently, her fingers brushing against the polished wood of the nearest door before she turned back to the elf. “Thank you, Faerby.”
The elf bowed once more before disappearing with a faint pop, leaving Hermione alone in the quiet glow of the room. She let out a long sigh, slipping off her heels and sinking onto the edge of the bed. Her fingers toyed with the beading of her dress as her gaze flicked once more to the doors. The champagne made it hard to think clearly, but something about their placement struck her as odd. She could see the door to the bathing chamber and closet, where did they lead? Shaking her head, she kicked off her heels and lay back against the plush duvet, letting the warmth of the fire and the champagne pull her into a haze of comfort and longing.
Her last thoughts as she drifted off into sleep were that she was far from home, but maybe—just for tonight—this could be enough.
❆
The Manor had finally fallen quiet, the hum of music and chatter replaced by the soft crackle of the fireplaces and the faint rustle of the winter breeze outside. Draco stood in his room, dress robes piled on the floor beneath him, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a glass of Firewhisky in hand as he stared at the dark wooden door on the far side of his chamber.
The door that led to her.
When he’d first seen Faerby leading Hermione through the labyrinth of the Manor, he had followed at a distance, careful to remain unseen. His steps had slowed when they’d arrived at the Amaranth Suite. That room. The Amaranth Suite was part of the family wing—a space reserved for those close enough to the Malfoys to be trusted. And the room just so happened to connect to both his chamber and his father’s. A door on each side.
Convenient didn’t begin to cover it.
His jaw clenched as he turned the night’s events over in his mind. His father had been unusually generous in his handling of Hermione Granger tonight—gracious, complimentary, even charming in a way that set his teeth on edge.
Of all the rooms in the Manor, Lucius had instructed Faerby to place her in the one that connected to both his chambers and his father’s.
What game was he playing?
Was this some calculated gift? A test, perhaps? His father was a master of manipulation, but this move felt both deliberate and maddeningly opaque. Was he handing her over, a tacit acknowledgment of Draco’s fixation? Or was it bait, a trap to see how far Draco would go?
Draco swirled the Firewhisky in his glass, his gaze fixed on the door as if willing it to reveal her. Granger. She’d been a constant in his thoughts for years now, ever since she had descended the stairs at the Yule Ball in fourth year and wrecked the orderly way he’d viewed her.
That day had been the beginning. It hadn’t mattered how much he tried to hate her, how many reasons he gave himself for why she was beneath him. She had always been there, in the back of his mind—sharp, defiant, impossible to ignore. Through the war, that fascination had turned into an obsession. Seeing her every day now, fighting by her side as an Auror, seeing her in uniform, her hair pulled back, her wand steady—it drove him mad. She was brilliant in battle, her magic a force he couldn't look away from. And when they duelled in training or sparred during his work as a consultant, it left him aching, burning, wanting.
And now she was here. In his house. In the room next door. Asleep. Completely at his mercy.
Draco drained the rest of his Firewhisky in one quick motion and set the glass down on his desk with a soft clink. He crossed the room, his steps soft against the thick carpet, and paused in front of the door. His fingers hovered over the handle, his chest tightening as he hesitated. He shouldn’t. She was drunk. Sleeping. Vulnerable. And yet, the image of her on the ballroom floor, her gown glittering like frost under the chandeliers, her amber eyes sharp and knowing, haunted him.
Draco exhaled softly and opened the door.
The room was dim, lit only by the fire burning low in the hearth. His breath hitched the moment he saw her.
Hermione lay across the bed, still in her gown, her cape pooled around her like molten silver. She hadn’t bothered to climb under the covers, and the soft rise and fall of her chest told him she was deep in sleep. Her hair spilled over the pillows in wild, untamed curls, and her lips were slightly parted, her face free of the tension she so often carried.
Draco’s throat tightened as he stepped closer, his eyes trailing over her. The gown clung to her body, its beading catching the firelight as if it were alive, every curve of her small, slender frame emphasised in a way that made his stomach clench painfully. She was stunning. Achingly so.
He’d wanted her for so long it felt like a curse. Through the years, through the war, through everything. And now, standing here, seeing her like this, it was almost too much.
Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides as he stopped beside the bed, his gaze drinking her in. His father’s schemes swirled in the back of his mind, but they were distant now, drowned out by the roar of his own desires. He could still hear her voice from earlier, sharp and confident as she sparred with him in the ballroom, the way she’d stood her ground, unyielding even under the weight of his gaze. It was that strength that pulled him, that fire he wanted to claim as his own.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, her lips parting with a soft sigh, and Draco felt his resolve waver. His hand lifted, his fingers brushing faintly against the edge of her cape where it draped over the bed.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be looking at her like this. But the years of wanting her, of dreaming of her, pressed down on him like a weight, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Not yet.
His fingers moved to trace lightly down her exposed shoulder, her caramel brown skin silky soft beneath his touch and causing him to shiver in anticipation. His breath caught as a thought flickered across his mind, dangerous and tempting. Here she was asleep before him, unguarded, thoughts open in ways they never would be while awake. He could reach her, slip past her walls and glimpse the truth of her, the way he’d always wanted to.
And she would never know.
He hesitated for only a moment, his magic humming under his skin as he let loose a thread of power. One he’d honed through years of practice.
Her mind opened to him, and he slipped inside.
The first sensation was warmth—a golden light that suffused everything, tingled with flickers of amber and green. It pulsed faintly, like the beating of her heart, a testament to the sheer force of her magic. He let his magic push deeper, her dreamscape taking shape around him as her thoughts unfolded.
He stood in a small living room, modest and cosy. A Christmas tree glowed softly in the corner, its lights twinkling in patterns that seemed almost alive. The smell of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air, and the sound of faint laughter echoed from somewhere just out of sight.
He moved slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile fabric of the dream. On the couch sat two figures, their faces slightly blurred, but their presence unmistakable: her parents. Hermione stood near them, still in her dress from the ball, her back turned to him as she adjusted something on the tree, her hair spilling down her back in wild curls.
He wanted to know what it would be like to belong here. To step fully into her life, make her see him not as a rival or colleague but as something more. He let his magic pull faintly through the dreamscape. The air around him shifted subtly, the blurred edges of the dream sharpening as his presence grew more tangible. Her parents’ voices faded for a moment, and Hermione stilled, her head tilting as though she sensed him.
He focused, weaving his intent carefully into the fabric of her dream. He didn’t want to startle her. Not yet. He adjusted the setting slightly, bringing himself into the warmth of the scene without disrupting its flow. Slowly, his steps brought him closer until he stood near the tree, just behind her.
“Hermione,” he said softly, his voice a delicate caress against her ear.
She turned, her golden-brown eyes widening briefly at him before softening in recognition, her mind accepting his presence as though it had always been a part of the scene.
“Draco?” she said, her voice laced with confusion, “What are you doing here?”
“You invited me,” he purred, “I wanted to meet your parents.”
“My parents?” She glanced toward the couch, where the blurred figures sat, their features growing clearer as his influence strengthened. Her brow furrowed slightly, “But why?”
“Because I wanted them to know who I am, and what you mean to me. Come on,” he continued, his voice soft but insistent, “introduce me.”
She blinked, her confusion melting into something softer, more trusting. “Okay,” she murmured, letting him take her hand and guide her toward the couch.
Her parents’ faces were fully visible now, their expressions warm and inviting as they looked up at them. “Mum, Dad,” Hermione said, her voice carrying a touch of nervousness that made his chest tighten. “This is Draco. My…” She hesitated, glancing at him, cheeks flushing faintly, “…my boyfriend.”
“Well, isn’t this touching,” came the cold, smooth voice of his father, slicing through the warmth like a blade.
He froze, as the dream shifted violently. The golden glow dimmed, the cosy scene of the living room blurring at the edges, replaced by the sharp silver gleam of Lucius Malfoy’s presence. He stepped into the Granger’s living room with effortless grace, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement and something far darker.
“Father,” Draco said tightly, his hand slipping from Hermione’s as he turned toward him.
Hermione’s parents flickered like candlelight, their forms becoming less substantial as Lucius’s influence pressed into the space. But Hermione herself didn’t vanish. She remained, her brows furrowed in confusion as she stared at him.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
He smiled, a slow, serpentine curve of his lips. “Ah, forgive me, Miss Granger. I seem to have interrupted a rather… intimate moment.” His gaze shifted to Draco, cold and calculating. “But I couldn’t resist.”
Draco stepped aside, lowering his gaze slightly as Lucius approached. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, his voice subdued, though not hostile.
His father’s smile didn’t waiver. “And yet here I am, you’ve taken quite an interest in our guest. I thought I’d see for myself what all the fuss was about. She’s quite… remarkable. I can see why you’re so enamoured.”
Draco stiffened but didn’t contradict him, his jaw clenching as he glanced at Hermione before looking back at his father. “She’s special,” he said carefully. “She deserves—”
“She deserves to be taken properly, Draco,” Lucius interrupted, his tone turning predatory. “All this time, and you’re still hesitating. Still holding back. Do you think a Malfoy wins by waiting for permission?”
The dream shifted again, the walls of the Granger’s living room dissolving entirely, replaced by the grand four poster of her bed in the Amaranth suite. The Christmas tree remained, its light flickering from multi-colored bulbs to soft silver fairy lights, casting an ethereal glow over the space.
Hermione’s breathing hitched as she turned in a circle, taking in the change. Her confusion tipped into fear as she looked between them both. “What is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
Draco opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by his father’s voice, lowered into a low croon as he took a step toward Hermione, “This Miss Granger is what you want. Your… Christmas present from Draco and I if you will.”
Hermione blinked, her wide eyes fixed on Lucius as he advanced. Her body remained frozen, caught in the web of his words even as her mind screamed for clarity.
“You’ve been so lonely haven’t you?” Lucius continued, his tone softening as he closed the distance between them. “Missing your parents for the Holidays, yearning for someone to hold you, comfort you. You’ve been fighting for so long, haven’t you, my dear?”
Hermione’s lips parted as she tried to speak, but no sound came out. Her breaths remained shallow, her gaze locked on Lucius’s piercing eyes.
Lucius tilted his head slightly, his expression both kind and cruel as he reached out to trail a finger along her cheek. “You don’t need to be lonely anymore, little dove. A Malfoy man takes care of what’s his.”
Hermione shivered under his touch, her dream-self responding instinctively even as her waking self might have fought. “I don’t…” she began, her voice faint, uncertain.
“Shh,” Lucius murmured, his finger brushing down to her chin. “We deserve only the best, after all. And you, Miss Granger, are exactly that. You’ll see it too—soon enough.”
He turned slightly, his gaze shifting to Draco, who stood at his side, silent but watchful. “This,” Lucius said, addressing his son, “is how a Malfoy takes what he is owed. We do not ask, Draco. We take. Watch, and learn.”
Draco nodded, his gaze steady as he stepped closer, no longer hesitating. His eyes flicked to Hermione, and for a moment, something softer flashed across his face—longing, perhaps, or a flicker of guilt. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by cool resolve.
“Yes, Father,” he said, his voice firm but quiet.
Lucius’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as he returned his focus to Hermione, his pale eyes glittering with power. “Now, Miss Granger,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress, “why don’t you let us show you how well we take care of what’s ours?”
❆
Her dream swirled around her, shifting like smoke, the edges soft and indistinct, but this new presence remained. The cold man was overwhelming in every sense of the word, his power threading through the fabric of her dream, anchoring her even as it pulled her deeper under his control. Her subconscious whispered that he was dangerous, but the way he looked at her, the way he was stalking toward her… he pulled her in despite her hesitation.
His fingers were long, graceful, and elegant, as he reached out to graze lightly up and down her cheek, “You’re not going to be lonely any longer Miss Granger,” his words came out as a soft caress, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake as he continued with quiet steel in his tone, “A Malfoy man takes care of what’s his. Tell me, little dove, do you want to be ours?”
Her mouth opened, her thoughts slow as she struggled to think through the implications of his words. She felt as if his fingers were trailing all along her body, distracting her as the dream pulsed in time with the cool man’s power. She couldn’t think, not clearly, not with the way his hand moved to cup her jaw, his touch both tender and possessive.
Her words came out slow, stuttered, “Y-yes, I… think so.”
She felt his magic pool in the air with her own, the cold sensation of it settling into her skin, sinking below it and into her blood.
“That’s such a good little dove, you’re an obedient little thing aren’t you? So perfect for us in every way.”
She opened her mouth to disagree, her eyes searching his as he looked down at her with hunger. She didn’t think she was obedient, but before she could say anything his lips crashed down on hers, silencing any protest she might have made.
What was it she had wanted to say, she couldn’t remember?
She moaned as his mouth forced hers open, his taste like frost and pine, creeping through her and devouring any chance of thought. A low fire started to burn in her abdomen, heating her in a way she hadn’t felt in too long.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her lips, his voice dripping with dark honey. “So eager to please, so ready to belong.”
The words sent a jolt through her, a mixture of indignation and something far more dangerous—a thrill that set her alight. She should argue, should push back, but his thumb brushed against her lower lip, silencing her protests before they could fully form.
His hands falling so that they were clutched around her throat, her breath catching as he gave a gentle squeeze and she suddenly felt the weight of the fabric draping from her shoulders release, the cape that had been held at her neck with a beaded choker falling to the floor.
“That’s better isn’t it?” he crooned.
She nodded her agreement, unable to speak as he lowered his head, his long silver hair pooling around his face, lips kissing down her neck and continuing along the top of her shoulder all the while his hands were roving her body. Moving from her neck to the enchanted zipper, glamoured to appear invisible, and slowly unzipping until that fabric too slid to the floor.
The cold man looked beyond her, to where she had almost forgotten the other man was watching. Draco. She knew him, remembered him from earlier when he had been with her at home. Her boyfriend wanting to be introduced to her parents.
A gasp of surprise floated from her as the cold man suddenly spun her so that her back was pressed tightly to him, her front now facing Draco. His jaw was clenched tight but his eyes fixed hungrily on her. His eyes, normally grey, were nearly black as they roamed up and down her now exposed skin.
Hands confidently worked their way down her back, as Draco looked on, undoing the eye and hook closures of the bustier she was wearing. One-by-one they came undone until the burgundy garment fell to the floor. Her breasts suddenly exposed and her already hardened nipples contracting even further in the cold air.
Draco’s eyes never left her, his desire written plainly across his face. His gaze travelled across her body in time with the cold man’s hands. He wasn’t stepping in, wasn’t stopping this. Instead, he seemed to… agree with it. With the cold man and what he was doing.
The cold man’s hands were roving across her sides, up her stomach until he was palming her breasts, rolling her nipples through his fingers causing her to arch, her breaths coming in short little gasps as he spoke, the command in his voice betraying none of the desire that she could feel with his body pressed flush against her, hard cock nestled into the curve of her ass. “See how responsive she is? The little dove needs us to satisfy her, to make her ours doesn’t she?”
The fire burning in her abdomen grew hotter, spreading through her limbs until her knees felt weak. What was he asking her?
His other hand slid from her breasts and down her stomach, tracing a languid path to the waistband of her matching knickers. She shivered as his fingers slipped beneath the scrap of burgundy lace, finding a hot wetness already pooling from her cunt.
“That’s it,” he crooned. “Let go, Little Dove. There’s no need to resist. Not here. Not with us.”
Us. The word made her head spin, a ripple of confusion breaking through the haze. Her lips parted as she struggled to focus, but her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.
His movements were as unyielding as his voice as he circled her clit, pushing her higher and higher, ripples of pleasure shooting through her as she climbed and climbed.
Draco stepped closer to her as though he were being reeled in on a line, only halting when he stood right before her, their presences overwhelming in their sheer intensity. His voice came out rough but certain, “You’ve always been ours, Hermione. You just didn’t know it.”
She could barely think beyond the sensations she was experiencing, but she felt her brow furrow as she forced herself to consider the meaning of his words and they finally sank in.
“I don’t…” she began, her voice shaking as she tried to speak through her gasps. “I don’t… belong to anyone.”
Lucius’s fingers made smaller circles on her clit, increasing the pressure as he lowered his head to bite at her neck. She could feel a smirk curving his lips as he tilted his head to speak in her ear, voice cold and certain, “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, little dove. You belong to us now. You agreed, did you not? And a witch’s word is binding.”
Draco’s hands reached forward to graze her skin, his touch was different—warmer, more desperate—but no less commanding as he began to knead her breasts. “You don’t have to fight anymore,” he said, his breath ghosting across her face. “You can let go. We’ll take care of you.
“Together.” Lucius promised.
At the cold man’s words, Draco bent down to take her nipple into his mouth sucking hard before biting down on the sensitive flesh. A shriek burst from her lips as she came in a burst of pleasure. The sharp sensation of Draco’s bite combined with the cold man’s attention to her clit suddenly pushing her over the edge.
Trembling, her body was sandwiched between the two men, their presence the only thing keeping her upright as she rose on her toes, muscles tightening with the force of her orgasm.
As her pleasure began to slowly fade, she felt her awareness sharpen at he edges of the room, flickering before the magic from the cold man, fluttered out, smoothing the disruption.
He pulled her away from Draco, turning and pushing her onto the bed so she fell with a little huff, “Not quite yet, Little Dove. You’ve done so well so far. It’s time I show you just how completely this little body belongs to me.”
His bright white dress robes, still gleaming as they had in the ballroom earlier this evening disappeared with a flick of his wrist and he was suddenly naked before her. His body lithe and lightly muscled, pale skin glowing in the flickering light of the Christmas tree. It was the body of an aristocrat, but one who valued strength and discipline.
She leaned back on her elbows as he crawled onto the bed with her, her eyes shifting to where Draco was taking a seat in the large arm chair beside the bed, his hand stroking himself beneath his dark robes.
Her body shivered involuntarily as she felt his weight settle atop her. Somewhere deep in her subconscious, a small part of her whispered that this wasn’t real, that she was losing herself. But the thought dissolved as the cold man’s lips found her jaw, trailing kisses along its edge before taking her mouth completely as he thrust into her in one smooth motion.
Her moan dissolved into his open mouth, her walls tightening at the sudden intrusion as he slowly pulled his hips back before slamming back into her again, his head falling back as a groan fell from his mouth, the most undone she had seen him become the entire night. His long hair mussed and falling around his face like some feral god lost to his own hunger.
“You’re perfect like this,” Lucius spoke, his voice a ragged purr as he began to move steadily in and out of her. “Open. Yielding. Do you feel it, Little Dove? How well you fit with us?”
Her breath hitched as he changed the angle of his hips, dragging one of her legs up and under his arm so that the tip of his cock pressed the sensitive front of her cunt and she began, once again, to spiral higher.
The world around them pulsed, the dream shifting as she felt an awareness bump the edge of her dream.
Ugh, she thought briefly waking from sleep, she was so hot, the sheets and duvet pressing their weight down on her.
The haze descended again and she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—not when his body and words bound her so thoroughly.
Lucius tilted her chin upward, his pale eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he leaned in. “Say it again,” he commanded, his voice velvet and steel. “Tell us you’re ours.”
Hermione’s heart pounded as she struggled to orient herself in her dream, her pulse roaring in her ears as the words formed unbidden on her tongue. “I’m yours,” she whispered, the admission spilling from her lips like a spell.
Draco groaned softly behind her, as his father claimed her mouth again, his kiss just as possessive as before. She melted into him, the fire consuming her completely as the dream pulsed with their combined power, then lessened in intensity, her own magic flaring slightly.
She groaned, her mind pushing her to wake again. Her body tingled as though someone had kissed and touched her all over, and the memory of the dream she had just been having flickered at the edges of her mind. That couldn’t be right, could it? The dream had been so vivid, so overwhelming, but it was just a dream. Wasn’t it?
A cool hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head slightly, and she felt the soft press of lips against her temple, followed by the faintest whisper of breath brushing against her ear. “Wake up, little dove,” came a smooth, familiar voice, the cadence sending a shiver down her spine as she felt her hips rising to meet the foreign intrusion she was slowly becoming aware of.
Someone was moaning, breaths coming in time with the delicious rhythm of her pleasure.
Her brow furrowed as her eyes fluttered open, the dim glow of the firelight casting the room in flickering shadows. She blinked slowly, her vision clearing just enough to make out a figure looming above her. Pale, sharp features. Silver-blond hair that glinted in the light. Eyes like frost.
Lucius Malfoy.
Her breath hitched as her mind struggled to reconcile the dream with reality. His hand moved to her shoulder, fingers trailing down her arm in a touch that felt both tender and possessive. “Don’t be scared little dove, we’re here to take care of you.” He swirled his hips in circles causing her to gasp and oh god, the moaning she had heard was coming from her.
Before she could fully process his presence, Lucius’s thrusts suddenly stopped as he withdrew from her, his hands deftly flipping her onto her stomach before he dove back into her, his arm reaching under her to play with her clit as he pounded in and out of her. And fuck, it felt so good.
“See how well she takes me, son? Such a needy cunt, wanting to be filled with cum.”
She tipped her head to the side. Draco, he was here too. The memory of him in her dream coming suddenly to the forefront of her mind. Her gaze met his and her heart stuttered.
His silver eyes were darker now, filled with the same intensity and hunger she’d seen in her dream. Her eyes drawn by the movement of his hand dropped to where he was sitting beside her in the armchair, cock protruding from his unbuttoned trousers, eyes hooded as he worked himself in time with his father’s thrusts.
Still feeling as if she was partially delirious, her mind screamed at her to stop, to pull away, but her body betrayed her.
Seeing Draco barely in control next to her with Lucius thrusting into her from behind, fingers teasing her swollen clit, she was sent her over the edge again, walls clamping down so hard that Lucius let out a garbled, “Merlin fuck,” his hips stuttering and she felt his body still as he groaned into her neck, a flood of warmth shooting across her overly sensitive inner walls.
All this occurred as if she was experiencing it through a cloud of fog. Her mind barely paying attention to the room around her as her body pulsed with wave after wave of pleasure, her magic thrumming in time with her release.
The weight above her rolled to the side and her mind started to clear. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze darted between them, mind struggling to reconcile the dream with the reality before her.
“This… this isn’t possible,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You were—this was—”
“A dream?” Lucius interjected from beside her, still slightly out of breath but his voice as velvety as it had been in her mind.
The bed dipped beside her as Draco sat down, his hand reaching out to run across her skin, eyes full of a want that should have had her fleeing the room in distress, but instead stoked the glowing embers that were still alight in her core.
“This isn’t…” she started, her voice hoarse and trembling, but Draco’s mouth descended, capturing hers in a kiss that silenced her words. It was softer than she expected, almost reverent, and it sent a jolt of heat through her nonetheless. Her hands instinctively clenched the sheets beneath her, her body tensing even as her lips parted beneath his, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
“That’s right, little dove,” Lucius crooned from beside her. “Draco has waited so long for you, your needy little cunt is greedy for us both. You don’t have to hide it.”
Draco rolled his body on top of hers, still in his dress robes, hard cock straining out from the trousers he was shoving down to his knees, quickly lining himself up before sinking into her with a groan that bordered on worship.
“Granger,” his words were a broken gasp, “Fuck, you feel better than I imagined. You’re so fucking wet.”
His words should have disgusted her, turned her off, but she felt her hips jerk in response. Her arousal, mixed with his father’s release, made a noise that was beyond vulgar as Draco truly began to move in and out of her. His hips snapping with force. It was arousing in a way that might have concerned her if she could focus enough to think beyond her trembling and overstimulated body.
Lucius’s hand brushed her hair back from her face, his voice low and approving. “That’s it,” he murmured, his tone smooth and commanding. “Let yourself feel it, Hermione. No need to resist.”
Draco was rutting in and out of her as her moans got louder, more desperate. His face buried in her neck as he grunted an unintelligible stream of words, her ears only picking up fragments, “… finally ours…Merlin… take my…never…letting…”
One of his hands reached between them to swipe at her overly sensitive clit and she gasped at the sensation, moving her hips to try and get away from the feeling that nearly bordered on pain. Draco stuttered at her movements, another flood of warmth shooting into her.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, grinding his head into her neck and hair.
“Ah, we’ll have to work on that won’t we, Draco?” Lucius remarked dryly as Draco rolled off her. “A Malfoy man never finishes before he gets his witch off.”
Her cheeks burned at his words, surely this was not truly happening and it really all was still a dream. She would wake up in her flat and decide not to go to the Malfoy Ball after all.
“This… this isn’t right,” she stammered, though her voice lacked conviction. “You can’t just—”
“Can’t we?” Lucius interrupted smoothly, his lips curving into a smirk. “You called to us, Hermione. You wanted this. You still want this—to be taken care of, to be ours.”
“I don’t know what you think this is,” she said finally, her voice shaky but defiant. “But I’m not… I’m not yours.”
Draco propped himself on his elbow, eyes boring into her own with certainty the caused her stomach to clench as the memory of Lucius’s words from her dream echoed back to her: “A Malfoy man takes care of what’s his. Tell me, little dove, do you want to be ours?”
And her own voice responding, soft and breathless: “Y-yes, I… think so.”
The rush of magic she had felt as she spoke, the way she had felt it settle beneath her skin–binding her to them.
Her breath hitched, the weight of those words sinking into her like a stone. She looked between them, her mind a chaotic swirl of fear, anger, and something far more dangerous—desire.
She wanted to deny them. She wanted to fight. But the truth was, some part of her didn’t want to at all. And that terrified her most of all.
Lucius chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. “Oh, little dove,” he murmured, his hand moving to brush a stray curl from her face. “You already are.”
